


An Echo of Sadness

by Squeaky



Series: Deep Wounds [4]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Drama, Dreams, Established Relationship, F/F, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-20
Updated: 2012-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-29 20:51:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squeaky/pseuds/Squeaky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Liz had never believed in ghosts, until now. Hoshi was dead. Her body just didn’t know it yet.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	An Echo of Sadness

**Author's Note:**

> The character of “Ensign Mae Lawless” belongs to D’Nash and is used with permission.

“Make it stop,” Liz moaned. Her hands were pressed over her ears, her eyes squeezed shut, tears streaking her face and staining the bodice of her uniform.

“What the hell is going on here?” Jon pulled Dr. Phlox aside and growled in his ear, “how long has she been like this?”

“I think since this morning, Captain,” Phlox replied, brow furrowed in concern. “She came to see me a few moments ago, stating that she was hearing voices.” Phlox shrugged in an exaggerated movement, “as you can see, it’s only gotten worse since then.”

“Hearing voices?” Jon said, “Jesus!” He raked his hands through his hair, took a deep breath. “What’s causing it? Can you help her?”

Phlox shook his head. “All the normal antipsychotics seem to have no effect. I tried sedation, but paradoxically, that seemed to make things worse for the Ensign, and I had to wake her up.” He raised his hands in a defeated gesture, “I am truly baffled.”

Jon turned his back to Phlox, hands on his hips, head down. In a matter of only a few days everything seemed to be going straight to hell. He looked over at the woman lying on the biobed a few feet from Liz. First Hoshi was mortally wounded; then developed a terrible infection. The minute she was cured, she suddenly became trapped in sleep, like some sort of modern day fairytale. His Commander had finally recovered from near-fatal burns, just to suddenly become moody and short-tempered, willing to flare at the slightest provocation. For the first time ever Trip had actually had a complaint filled against him by a member of his engineering team, something Jon hadn’t wanted to deal with even as he had been forced by regulations to forward a copy to Trip. And speaking of not wanting to deal with things: Malcolm had submitted a transfer request right out of the blue. Hadn’t the Lieutenant finally felt like he had a home here on _Enterprise?_ Jon shook his head, he would never understand the reserved armoury officer, and now he would never get the chance. He looked over at Liz again, shivering and crying on the biobed, trapped deep within herself, obviously terrified of something that neither he nor Phlox could touch. He sighed. What had happened to them all? He swallowed hard. “What exactly does Liz say she’s hearing?” Jon asked without turning around.

“Actually,” Phlox said, and Jon could hear the hesitation in his voice, “she says that it’s Ensign Sato talking to her.”

Jon’s jaw dropped. “She hears Hoshi? _What?_ ”

“When Ensign Cutler first came to sick bay,” Phlox continued, “she stated quite succinctly that she found that every time her mind wandered or she became distracted, she would hear Hoshi’s voice calling to her.” Phlox gestured towards Liz with his head, “she claims that it started when she first woke up this morning while she was dozing before getting out of bed.”

Jon gaped at him, “What did Hoshi say to her?”

“I am unsure, Captain,” Phlox said, “Ensign Cutler gave me the impression that Ms. Sato was calling her name, but I don’t know how it has progressed since then, as you can see Ms. Cutler has not been able to tell me much more since.”

Jon made a face. “Why would Liz say she’s hearing Hoshi’s voice? That makes no sense!”

Phlox cleared his throat. “Actually, I may have the reason for that,” he said, “but you must promise me that this information will be kept in the strictest confidentiality.”

Jon turned to face the doctor. “Absolutely.”

“Ensign Cutler and Ensign Sato are involved,” Phlox said, “they have been in a romantic relationship for approximately six months.”

“Six months?” Jon repeated. He hadn’t known; hadn’t even guessed. He shook his head, “I had no idea.”

“They have been nothing if not discreet,” Phlox agreed, “but I think that could explain Liz’s present condition.”

Jon frowned, “Do you think Liz’s behaviour is a reaction to the stress of Hoshi being ill?”

“I would not have thought that Ms. Cutler would be prone to this type of stress-induced reactions.” Phlox said, “I have often admired her cool head under pressure. No. I’m afraid there is something else affecting Ms. Cutler this way,” he continued, “but I am at a loss to say what it is.”

Jon rubbed the side of his face. “No one else has been affected so far?”

“So far,” Phlox agreed, “but since I don’t know what caused this, I can’t say whether or not her condition might be contagious.”

“Could it be related to Hoshi’s?” Jon asked, grasping at straws, “could Hoshi have been hearing voices too, and that’s why she’s like this?”

“The scans I’ve taken of her brainwave activity only indicate normal sleep patterns, Captain,” Phlox said, “at this point I cannot say whether or not the two conditions are related in any way.”

“And it’s Hoshi’s voice Liz is hearing,” Jon said, wanting to make sure he understood completely, “no one else’s.”

Phlox nodded.

Jon covered his hand with his mouth. What the hell was going on?

* * *

Hoshi stood in the middle of nothing, screaming.

She had fallen asleep in the meadow with warm sunlight on her face and the rustle of flowers in her ears. She had woken to – nothing.

She was surrounded by whiteness. Flat white, with no up and no down; no beginning and no end. A never-ending expanse of pure white. So white it hurt her eyes and made her dizzy trying to focus on it, so white she could feel it through her, inside her; like she was filled up with an absence, filled up with nothingness.

Hoshi had been raised Buddhist. She had been raised to believe in the sanctity of life and the eternal wheel of karma. She remembered keenly praying in temple, inhaling the intoxicating and soothing scent of incense as she bowed her head to the ground three times, helping her ancestors to move along on the wheel of life; so they would smile down upon her family from heaven, and go forward onto a higher and better plain of existence.

She had never believed in hell. Until now.

There was nothing to hear, no sound reached her ears except the rustle of her kimono, her own heartbeat and her harsh, high-pitched shrieking into the void all around her. She clasped and unclasped the sides of her gown, gripping the reality of the cloth as she screamed. But the cloth wasn’t real either, it was something she had wrapped herself in when she had first stepped out of her body. Its reality was only as real as she was, and how real was that? She couldn’t tell anymore; doubting the certainty of the breath in her lungs, the beating of her own heart.

When she had first woken up, she had desperately searched for connection with her friends. The connection that had allowed her to wander through their dreams, to see Trip; talk with Malcolm; make love to Liz covered in rose petals. Then, in a flash, she had suddenly felt Liz, a glimpse of the other woman, a touch of colour against the never-ending whiteness. She had grabbed the link with both hands, holding it tightly until her body was trembling and her head ached, calling and calling for Liz until she thought her heart would break.

The connection was still there, but Liz wouldn’t answer her; refused to help. Hoshi had been forsaken. She knew she was going mad.

And so she continued to scream.

* * *

Malcolm looked up from his station as Archer stormed onto the bridge and turned to T’Pol. “Report!” he barked; glowering at her.

“We have been in orbit around the planet for approximately two hours, Captain,” T’Pol responded in her well-modulated tones, “I have been scanning the surface for anything that might help shed some light on Ensign Sato’s condition, but so far I have turned up nothing beyond what we had learned previously.”

“Wonderful,” Archer muttered. He sat in his chair, hands clenching the armrests. He turned back to T’Pol, “So, what do you suggest we do?” he said, and Malcolm could hear his frustration. It was a sentiment he felt as well and he was chafing at his inability to do anything to help Hoshi but sit at his station and wait. He ground his teeth, feeling the muscles bunch in his jaw.

“I am unsure,” the Vulcan responded, “while it is logical to assume that the residents of this planet would be familiar with Hoshi’s illness, without further information, it is difficult to know where we should begin our search, or indeed what we are searching for.”

“No kidding,” the Captain growled. He stood up and began to pace, then turned to T’Pol again. “I think we should just go back down to the planet,” he said, “start our searching from the town where she got shot, maybe ask the locals what they might know.” He resumed pacing, and Malcolm ground his teeth harder. Archer’s restlessness always made him feel edgy.

Malcolm watched as T’Pol raised one graceful eyebrow. “The away team would have to be disguised as locals once again, Captain,” she said, “in order to avoid exposing themselves as aliens. That could potentially make it difficult to explain our query, as presumably locals would already have knowledge of this illness.”

“I’m aware of that, Sub-Commander,” the Captain said, “but at this point, I’m not sure I care. Hoshi’s lying in sick bay, completely unreachable and _they_ \--" he stabbed his finger towards the green and blue sphere on the view screen, “might have the answers we need. That seems like a good enough reason to risk it to me.”

Malcolm opened his mouth to remind the Captain of what happened when he had lost his communicator during an away mission, and how they nearly hung for the privilege of not being ‘local,’ but then shut it again. He still felt responsible for what happened to Hoshi, even if she had promised him in a dream that it hadn’t been his fault. He would try anything to make her well again, and if it took his death, so be it. “I’ll go,” he said instead, directing his comments to the Captain, “I’ll find out what we need to save Hoshi.”

Archer shot him a dark look. “Are you sure you can spare the time from packing up your things?”

Malcolm felt a rush of heat to his face. Damn Archer for bringing his transfer up now! “I think I can find the time,” he shot back, staring Archer in the eye, “you know I’m the best for the job.”

Archer looked at him, nodded once. “Agreed,” he said. He faced the Sub-Commander again, “the away team will consist of you, me, Malcolm and--"

T’Pol cut him off. “I believe it would be better if I remain on board, Captain,” she said, voice even and cool, “there is something I would like to discuss with Dr. Phlox concerning Ms. Sato’s treatment.”

The Captain raised his eyebrows, “Oh?”

“Yes,” T’Pol replied. Her tone indicated no more information would be forthcoming.

Archer sighed, “All right then. T’Pol, you stay here in charge of _Enterprise._ Travis?” he said, and the young helmsman immediately turned to face him, “I want you to fly us down and stay with the shuttle pod. That way, if we have to leave it behind like we did last time; at least it will be a bit easier to retrieve.”

Travis was visibly disappointed. “I didn’t mind transporting down.”

“I know you want to come into town Travis,” Archer said gently, “but I need you to stay with the shuttle.” He smiled at the other man, “okay?”

Travis nodded glumly. “Yessir.”

Archer clapped his hands. “Okay then. T’Pol, you have the bridge, Malcolm, alert Dr. Phlox that we’ll need those prosthetics put back on ASAP, and inform the quartermaster that we’ll need another set of those woollen garments. Please inform me when Phlox is calling us. I’ll be in my ready room.” Archer walked a few steps, turned back to Malcolm. “And Lieutenant,” he said, causing Malcolm’s head to snap up from where he had been about to contact the doctor, “comm. Trip, tell him to meet us in sick bay as well.” He strode off.

Trip? Malcolm thought to himself, _Trip_ was going to be coming too? “Blast.” he swore under his breath, “Bloody hell.”

* * *

Trip surveyed the engineering crew of Alpha shift and purposely placed his hands behind his back, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. He nodded to Lieutenant Kelly who was standing near the front, made eye contact with Ensigns Brody, Fisher and Lawless and looked over the rest of the crew, meeting the gaze of every one. One of them had told the Captain they had a problem with his recent show of temper and they had actually made a formal report. Trip sighed, fightin the desire to cross his arms. What had happened to telling someone when you had a problem with them, instead of immediately going over their head? He cleared his throat and held up the PADD with Jon’s report.

“It has been brought to my attention,” he said, congratulating himself for how rational and calm his tone sounded even though he was seething inside, “that recently, some of y’all have been adversely affected by my behaviour.” He paused and raked them all with his eyes again. Far in the back, he noticed Crewman Jones flush. _Bastard!_ Trip thought to himself, Jones was a mealy-mouthed sonofabitch; probably reported him just to get noticed by the Captain. Trip caught Jones’ eyes, and held them until the other man was forced to look away. Trip allowed himself a small feeling of triumph. “I just wanted to say that I’m aware of your feelins’ about this,” he continued, “and I promise to keep my temper under control in the future.” There, he had addressed the issue without actually apologizing. He gave them all a tight smile, “Questions?” he asked, daring them to say anything. No one did. “Alright then,” he continued, “dismissed.” As one, they turned and fled back to their stations.

Trip watching the uniformed back of Crewman Jones as the man went back to cleaning the plasma conduits. Trip smiled to himself, “Hope you get used to that job,” he said softly, “’cause you ain’t gonna be doin’ much of anythin’ else.” Suddenly, the vengeful nature of his thoughts got to him, and he frowned. Since when was he so damn vindictive? He sighed again and rubbed the back of his neck. Finding out that Malcolm loved him clearly had not changed him for the better.

“Commander?” The woman’s voice broke him out of his revere, and he turned to see Ensign Lawless looking up at him, her dark eyes wide and uncertain.

“Yes, Mae?” Trip said, “How can I help you?”

Mae bit her lip and glanced from Trip towards his office door. “Could I talk to you, Commander?” she said, “in your office, maybe?”

Trip nodded, gesturing for her to go first. “Lead on.”

He opened the door for her and indicated she should sit as soon as they got inside. The Ensign sat on the chair in front of his desk, and as he shut the door behind them, her slender shoulders and dark hair reminded him suddenly, painfully of Hoshi. Had it really been less than a week since she had sat in that same chair, practically begging him to go talk to Malcolm and patch things up? Now she was stuck in some kind of eternal sleep in sick bay, and he never did talk to Malcolm. Trip rubbed his right temple with one hand. How did things change so fast?

Mae turned her head towards him, “Sir?” she said, expression tentative.

“Sorry,” Trip muttered, moving to sit behind the desk, “you just reminded me of somethin’ for a second.”

“Oh,” Mae replied. She clasped her hands together, began tapping her thumbs against one another. They looked at each other, neither speaking. The silence grew uncomfortable.

“How can I help you, Ensign?” he said finally.

Mae sucked in a breath. “I wanted to ask if you wanted me to transfer out of engineering,” she blurted. She looked like she was going to cry.

“Transfer?” Trip furrowed his brow, “why?”

“Because I lost it on the catwalk,” she said rapidly, “I got confused, thought I was surrounded by spiders.” Her eyes were wet with unshed tears. “Because you can’t trust me anymore. I burned you.”

“Whoa, slow down,” Trip said, putting out his hand to stop her rush of words, “I can’t ‘trust you’ anymore? Who told you that?”

Mae looked down at her hands, “It just makes sense,” she said, “I don’t trust myself anymore. Why should you?”

Trip shook his head, “Mae,” he said, “Mae look at me.” After a moment, she raised her eyes to his, dark and expressive with pain. “Look,” Trip said gently, “you losin’ control in the catwalk like that; that was the vaccine talkin’, makin’ you crazy. I know it wasn’t your fault.”

“I burned you,” Mae whispered, “I probably would have killed you if Lieutenant Reed hadn’t come along when he did.” She looked down at her hands again, “I don’t even know how to say I’m sorry.”

“You got nothin’ to apologize for,” Trip said and he smiled although she still wasn’t looking at him. “Actually,” he continued, “as far as I’m concerned, your actions on the catwalk deserve a commendation.”

The Ensign’s head shot up. “What?”

“Yep,” Trip said, leaning back in his chair, “you thought that the whole catwalk was covered in spiders, right?”

“Yes,” Mae said, “but I shouldn’t--“

“And you’re terrified of spiders? Hate them more than anythin’?” Trip interrupted.

“Uh huh,” Mae nodded her head.

“But, instead of runnin’ away, instead of screamin’ and divin’ for cover, you stood your ground, didn’t you?” Trip affirmed.

“Of course,” Mae said, clearly confused, “but it wasn’t real.”

“But you didn’t know it wasn’t real, did you?”

“No,” she paused. “No, I guess I didn’t.”

Trip smiled at her. “That’s right,” he said, “even though you’re terrified of spiders, and you thought the catwalk was crawlin’ with them, you stayed right there, tryin’ to save my life.”

“But I burned you!” Mae cried, “I could have killed you!”

“You didn’t know you were burning me,” Trip said quietly. “You stood your ground, fought your fear. As far as I’m concerned you acted in a matter totally becomin’ a Starfleet officer.” He picked up a PADD of the desk, tossed it to her. “I put it in my report to the Cap’n.”

Mae caught the PADD between both her hands, keyed it on and began to read. She was smiling when she looked up again, her bottom lip trembling. “You recommended me for a promotion?” she asked, voice quavering.

“Yep,” Trip winked at her, “we need more officers like you in Starfleet.”

Mae stood, trying to wipe her eyes, hold the PADD and shake Trip’s hand all at once. “Thank you sir,” she stammered, “I don’t know--I can’t--how can I ever repay you?”

Trip grasped her hand, squeezed it gently. “Just stop blamin’ yourself for somethin’ that was beyond your control, Ensign,” he said, trying to convey the seriousness of his words, “it wasn’t your fault. Remember that.”

Mae swallowed, nodded. “I’ll try, sir,” she said.

“Good.” Trip gestured towards the door. “Now get outta here and go do some work.”

She flashed him a smile, showing a dimple on one cheek. “Yes sir,” she said and left.

Trip sighed and leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. He had no idea that Lawless had taken the whole incident so hard; had no idea that she had spent the last week sure that her commanding officer didn’t trust her anymore. Trip rubbed his eyes with his hands, first that complaint sent to the Captain, and now this. He had been so caught up in his own misery that he hadn’t been a very good Commander recently. That would have to change.

He looked at the chair across from his desk, remembering Hoshi sitting in it, telling him to talk to Malcolm. “I will, Hosh,” he whispered, “I promise.”

“Commander Tucker?” Trip jumped. It was Malcolm’s voice.

He pressed the comm. button over his desk. “Tucker here,” he said, feeling his heart speed up just from knowing it was Malcolm on the other end.

“The Captain wants you to meet the away team in sick bay in approximately 10 minutes.”

So, they were finally going down to the planet. Trip cleared his throat. “Uh,” he said, “who else is goin’ on the mission?”

The answer was terse. “You, me and the Captain. Travis is flying the shuttle.”

“Thanks.” Trip keyed off the comm., thinking. Maybe he’d get that chance to talk with Malcolm, after all.

* * *

Liz knew she was going mad.

It had started with just voices. A gentle buzzing by her ears when she was thinking about something else. Just loud enough to cause her to wake up and look around; turn her head; drop the slide she had been looking at, losing the specimen.

Each time she had been so sure it was Hoshi talking to her, so firm in her belief that she felt the slap of disappointment when there had been no one there. At that point she thought it was just exhaustion and grief playing with her mind, causing her to hallucinate the voice that she longed to hear most of all.

Then, the voice got louder. Hoshi’s words had become more insistent, more prevalent. She had ceased being distracted by them and instead had become captivated; unable to focus on anything beyond Hoshi’s voice in her head.

She had fought it then, trying to break the spell that was surrounding her, dragging her thoughts away from her work and into the recesses of her mind. That’s when she knew it was time to see Dr. Phlox.

That’s when the pain had started.

She had weaved her way to sick bay. Hoshi was screaming in her head, the sound like someone had reached into her skull and was ripping her brain apart with long, sharp talons. Her vision was flooded with a blinding white light, so bright that she had to squeeze her eyes shut against it. She thought she was having a stroke or suffering an aneurism. Death couldn’t come soon enough.

Finally, she had crawled into sick bay, crying and retching from the agony. Phlox had immediately come to her and given her an analgesic that had moved the pain from excruciating to merely brutal. Haltingly, she had told him what was happening, barely able to hear her own voice over the shrieking in her ears. Phlox had given her a sedative, and gratefully, she had started to sink into blissful unconsciousness.

Her eyes had flown open, a cry of terror on her lips.

Hoshi had been there when she had closed her eyes, looming out of the terrible whiteness like a banshee, eyes wild, mouth an open ‘o’ of horrible sound, hands curved like claws, reaching for Liz’s uniform, tearing at her skin.

Liz had never believed in ghosts until now. Hoshi was dead. Her body just didn’t know it yet.

Tears streamed down Liz’s face as she was hit with the enormity of her loss, the realization that she would have to live the rest of her life without the woman she loved. She wanted to howl, cry out her pain, close her eyes and sleep until this nightmare would all go away.

But she couldn’t sleep. Hoshi’s ghost was waiting for her on the other side, trying to kill her with claws sharp as daggers, to drag her into the colourless void and never let her out.

“Make it stop,” Liz moaned. She pressed her hands to her ears and shut her eyes tightly. The blinding light was still there, Hoshi’s voice echoing inside her head, screaming like the damned.

* * *

The trip to the planet was quiet and uncomfortable. Travis was flying the shuttle, keeping his eyes focused intently on his consol and the windshield in front of him, trying desperately not to notice the tension emanating from the other three men.

The Captain was sitting beside him, idly checking the controls. Travis knew that the Captain really wanted to be flying, but had differed to the helmsman as a small compensation for Travis having to wait with the shuttle once they arrived planet-side. Every once in a while, Archer would blow air out through his lips, or tap the screen, or do something that broadcast how anxious and impatient he was feeling. Travis could sympathise. This was the first time he could remember wishing a flight would actually be over faster.

The Commander was sitting behind and across from the Captain, forearms on his knees, staring out of the window. Travis wasn’t sure, but he thought that Trip was doing his best to pretend like the Lieutenant wasn’t there. It was strange though, Trip trying to ignore Malcolm when anyone who even glanced at him could see Trip’s whole body was radiating awareness of the other man; he kept sliding his eyes over Malcolm, looking while not looking.

And that was another strange thing Travis thought. Malcolm was sitting in the back--hiding really, and being very quiet. Not that Malcolm wasn’t usually quiet, but this time Travis knew it was because Malcolm was miserable, which was unusual. Usually the armoury officer was much better at pulling back his emotions, sequestering them under that well-crafted veil of stoicism. Growing up a Boomer on a small ship where privacy was at a premium and social cohesion was of primary importance, Travis had developed a keen sense of the emotions of others. It helped to have a heads-up on who was having a bad day on a ship as small as the _Horizon._ Being highly empathic meant that you got into less fights, everyone got along better and the ship ran smoother. It had surprised the hell out of him during his first few weeks of training at Starfleet when he had realized that his emotional sensitivity was actually not the norm, and other people were not as well clued in to everyone else’s emotions. It had made him wonder how people on Earth had relationships at all if they just weren’t that aware of how others felt.

Like Trip and Malcolm. He would bet credits on the fact that Trip and Malcolm had something going on together--something that wasn’t working.

The Captain shifted in his chair, tapped his fingers on the consol. “How much time until we land, Travis?”

Travis glanced down at his screen. “We’re approaching our landing site now, sir. It shouldn’t be more than five, maybe ten minutes.”

Archer nodded, “Good to hear.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Travis could see Trip stretch and sit back in his chair. “So what’s the plan once we get there, Cap’n?” he asked.

Archer turned his seat around to look at him. “We walk into town, look around, try to find someone who might know anything about Hoshi’s condition,” he said. “Hopefully we’ll find something.”

“I hope it’s quick,” Trip replied, pulling at the collar of his yellow-coloured sweater, “this wool itches.” Travis thought he was probably trying to make a joke. No one laughed.

Travis took a deep breath. The landing couldn’t come soon enough.

* * *

T’Pol walked smoothly into sick bay, pondering.

She had been relieved when the Captain had not questioned her further about the treatment she was planning with Dr. Phlox. While the idea of discussing it did not make her anxious, she found her thoughts on the subject became clearer once she knew the Captain would not broach it again. It was a difficult concept to explain to non-Vulcans, and a treatment that she was not sure would work. It was better that only Dr. Phlox, and perhaps Ms. Sato would know what she would be attempting, that way hopes would not be unduly raised.

“Ah, Sub-Commander.” Dr. Phlox gave her his characteristic grin as he approached, “I’ve been expecting you. All ready to begin?” he asked, his brilliant blue eyes flashing with unconcealed excitement.

“I am ready,” T’Pol replied. She moved further into sick bay and surveyed the room. Ensign Cohn was at the back, well out of hearing range and apparently busy. He would not be a concern. Ms. Sato lay on a biobed just to her left, appearing as if asleep, as Dr. Phlox had described to her. To her right and nearer the back was Ensign Cutler, curled up on her side and moaning softly. T’Pol raised an eyebrow at the sight of the woman. She had been unaware that any other members of the crew would be in sick bay while she was attempting the treatment.

“Just terrible,” Dr. Phlox mused, looking over at the Ensign. He had clearly followed T’Pol’s gaze as she looked at Ms. Cutler. “She thinks she’s hearing Hoshi’s voice, screaming in her head,” the doctor continued, “and nothing I offer her seems to help.”

“Ensign Cutler thinks she is hearing Ensign Sato’s voice?” T’Pol repeated, turning to focus on Dr. Phlox.

“Yes,” he replied, “she’s been that way since early this afternoon.”

“Interesting,” T’Pol said. She would keep that information for further investigation, should her attempt to revive Ms. Sato fail.

“Well, lets get started, shall we?” Dr. Phlox said, gesturing for T’Pol to lead the way to Ms. Sato’s bedside. T’Pol nodded to him and went to stand by the sleeping woman, Dr. Phlox standing on the opposite side of her biobed.

T’Pol looked at him. “I will need silence for what I am about to do,” she said, using her tone to convey the seriousness of her request. “Please dim the lights, and do not permit anyone else to enter sick bay while I am making this attempt.”

The doctor nodded gravely, and left the Ensign’s bedside to do her bidding. In a moment the lighting dimmed significantly, creating an atmosphere that was more conducive to meditation, and was not unpleasant. She heard the Doctor key in the commands to lock the doors, and then return. T’Pol met his gaze, indicating that she recognized his efforts with a small incline of her head. She turned to focus again on the Ensign, and took a deep, cleansing breath, as she might do before her nightly ritual.

Gently, she placed her hands on either side of the Ensign’s face, fingers spread in a ‘V’ formation, thumbs on either side of her jaw. “My mind to your mind,” she said softly. “My thoughts to your thoughts.” She allowed her eyes to drift shut.

* * *

When Hoshi had been very little, she had read a story about a Native Canadian who had become trapped in a sudden and violent snow squall while out hunting. In the story, the snow had become so deep and heavy that soon the hunter had been unable to find any landmarks beneath the all-encompassing blankets of white. He had become immediately lost, blinded by the snow; unable to differentiate sky from land; only knowing which way was up by the firmness of the ground beneath his feet.

He would have died there, frozen and buried underneath the snow that was preventing him from finding his way home, except for the appearance of a miracle. Suddenly, there in front of him, like the opening of an eye, appeared a black rabbit; as visible against the snow as a light in the darkness.

Hoshi blinked. There, in front of her, was T’Pol, appearing out of the white like a rabbit in the snow. She stopped screaming.

T’Pol walked over and stood directly in front of her. She was wearing her uniform, her hair short and neat, eyebrow raised in a silent question. It was as if the Vulcan had stepped onto the bridge, and not into Hoshi’s nightmare. “I have found you,” she said.

Hoshi threw herself into T’Pol’s arms, feeling her body shake with the force of her crying. “I thought I was dead! I’ve been so scared!” she sobbed, “please, get me out of here!”

“You are not dead, merely asleep.” T’Pol said.

“Oh, thank the Gods!” Hoshi wept, hugging her tighter. After a moment, she felt the Sub-Commander’s hand gently tap her on the back. The movement felt awkward and unnatural, and slowly the thought occurred to Hoshi that hugging was a completely human expression of emotion. Embarrassed, she stepped back, began wiping her face with her sleeve.

She stopped in shock.

The landscape had shifted from the unending white to an image of Vulcan: red sand and rocks as far as the eye could see, blazing under a hot red sun. Hoshi raised her arm to shield her eyes, and stared at her sleeve. She was wearing her Starfleet uniform. Quickly, she touched her hair while looking down at her outfit. Her hands found her hair tucked neatly back into its clip; her uniform was immaculately turned out. Even her boots were polished to a high shine. “Sub-Commander?”

T’Pol turned her lips down in a close approximation to a frown. “I do not know why the landscape has taken on the appearance of Vulcan,” she said. “I do not think it is me that has caused it.”

Hoshi looked around, moving herself in a circle. They appeared to be in the middle of one of Vulcan’s deserts, a place where a novice might go to test themselves with meditation and deprivation. Nothing looked even remotely familiar. Hoshi bit her lip. “How do we get out of here?”

T’Pol looked around her, her gaze slow and measured. “I do not know,” she said finally.

Hoshi turned, looked at her sharply. “You don’t know?” She felt the tendrils of hysteria begin to weave around her heart. Quickly, desperately, she probed the link she had created with Liz, sighing inwardly with relief when she realized it was still intact. At least that was something. She looked imploringly at T’Pol. “You really don’t know how to get us out?”

T’Pol raised one eyebrow. “I have never participated in a mind-meld with a human before,” she said quietly, “I am...“ She paused, “unsure of what our next step should be.”

Hoshi felt her heart constrict as a frightening thought struck her. “You’re not _stuck_ here, are you?” she whispered. Being stuck in this colourless void was a fate she wouldn’t wish on anyone, least of all to someone attempting to rescue her from it.

“I do not believe so,” T’Pol answered calmly, and Hoshi felt instantly relieved. “As soon as I discontinue our mind-meld, I should leave here immediately.” She looked around again. “I had assumed the path back to your body would have been more obvious.”

“Me too.” Hoshi felt a wave of despair wash through her and she sat heavily on a nearby rock, placing her head in her hands. After a moment, she felt the light touch of the Sub-Commander’s hand on her shoulder.

“Do not let negative emotions overwhelm you,” T’Pol said, “The Captain, Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed have gone down to the planet where you were injured in an attempt to discover a cure for your present condition. I am certain they will be successful.”

Hoshi raised her head, feeling the twin suns immediately evaporate the tears from her cheeks. “But what if they’re not?” she asked, voice quavering.

“I cannot answer that,” T’Pol said.

Hoshi nodded, took a deep breath and tried to smile. “Well, let’s hope they’re successful then.”

“Hope would be a useful emotion at this time,” T’Pol replied.

Hoshi swallowed. “Can you stay awhile?” she asked, “I mean, would it be all right if you kept ‘mind-melding’ with me for a bit longer?” she looked down at her hands. “I’d rather not be alone again.”

“I understand,” T’Pol said, “I will stay as long as I am able.” She sat down on the sand and crossed her legs. “Perhaps you would care to join me in a meditation,” she said, indicating the ground in front of her, “it may help you deal with some of the more unpleasant emotions this experience is generating.”

Hoshi gave her a weak smile. “I’d like that.” She sat.

* * *

It was mid-morning on the planet, its yellow sun hanging high in the clear blue sky. The air smelled clean and touched with heat with a faint reminder of the rain from the day before. A great day to be outdoors, Trip thought, if only they were able to enjoy it.

Jon put his hands on his hips, staring at a patch of ground in the middle of the street. “There it is,” he said softly, indicating the dirt with his chin, “that’s where Hoshi was shot.”

Trip searched for Malcolm out of the corner of his eye. Just as he suspected, the Lieutenant was standing well back from the Captain, looking completely wretched. An expression that Trip’s grandfather used to say sprung to mind, and Trip repressed a smile. Malcolm looked like someone had just shot his dog. Jon didn’t say anything else, and if the rest of the mission thus far was any indication, Malcolm wouldn’t be saying anything either. Trip cleared his throat. “So, what’s the plan?” he queried, looked at Jon, “anyone in particular you want us to ask?”

Jon shook his head, “No plan, Trip. We’ll split up, go question the locals, meet back here in an hour or so. Hopefully one of us will know something by then.”

“Is it really a good idea for us to ‘split up?’” Trip turned his head at the sound of Malcolm’s voice. The Lieutenant’s face was grim, his disapproval apparent. Trip could see Jon bristle at Malcolm’s tone. Trip shook his head. Trust Malcolm to open his mouth, only to antagonize the Captain. Those two had been on a really short leash around each other recently, and Trip wasn’t sure why exactly, but he thought Malcolm’s transfer request might have something to do with it. He was glad to know he wasn’t the only one Malcolm had managed to piss off because of it. Still, as usual, the Lieutenant did have a point.

“We haven’t had much luck on away missions before,” Trip said to Jon, “it might not be such a bad idea to stick together.”

Jon turned to Trip; putting his back towards the Lieutenant in what Trip knew was a calculated move. “We could cover more ground apart.”

“True,” Trip nodded, “but if one of us gets captured, or hurt…” he let his sentence trail off; giving Jon what he hoped was an apologetic look.

Jon narrowed his eyes at him, then suddenly gave a small laugh. “Okay, okay,” he said, raising his hands, “I get it. We’ll stick together.” He crossed his arms and turned back to Malcolm, smile gone. “So, Lieutenant,” he said, “where to?”

Unexpectedly, Malcolm met Trip’s gaze over Jon’s shoulder, and Trip found himself taken aback. Was that actually a ‘thank you?’ in those grey eyes? “I think we should start with the tavern across the street,” Malcolm replied, all formality, “hopefully someone witnessed the shooting; it would mean less explaining on our part.”

Jon gave a curt nod. “Let’s go.”

The three of them started across the street, Jon in the lead with Trip and Malcolm just behind. Trip turned his head slightly so he could look at Malcolm and watch the other man as they moved. Under Phlox’s expert touch, Malcolm’s normally impeccable appearance had been changed to look like a local of the planet. His hair, far from its usual style, had been tousled and roughed-up to look less military. Malcolm wore a collarless white cotton shirt underneath a wool jacket and pants; scuffed black work-boots completed the outfit. The shirt and jacket had been well-measured by the quartermaster, and emphasized his broad shoulders and tapered waist. The grey of his jacket made his eyes look darker than normal; deep and unreadable. Phlox had spent a good hour touching up and re-attaching the prosthetic horns that Malcolm had worn on the last away mission to the planet, and now they dotted his brow and cheekbones, peeked out of his sleeve where they connected to his wrists. Unbelievably, the little bumps only accentuated the sharp angles of Malcolm’s features, making his face look even more sculpted. The man was beautiful, no question. Trip found himself sighing again. He had lost so much.

His reverie was broken by the sight of a local approaching the Captain. The man was heavy-set and appeared to be middle aged, his horns yellowing in colour with his advanced years. Trip heard Malcolm gasp softly beside him, and he turned his head sharply to look at the Lieutenant. Malcolm had schooled his face into a passive appearance, but the shock was still visible in his eyes. Trip frowned, wondering what he was missing.

“You are back,” the man said to Jon with a wide smile, showing several large pointed teeth. His expression grew grave, “the young woman was wounded,” he said. “Several of us came to help you, but then you were gone.” He smiled again, “Washed away by the rain.”

Trip watched as Jon smiled warmly at the man. “Thank you for your concern,” he said, “it’s true that the woman--our friend--was hurt. She was shot, and we had to take her back to our...“ Jon paused, clearly thinking of a reasonable explanation, “home for treatment.”

The man nodded sagely, “And now?”

Jon gave a sad expression. “That is why we have returned,” he said, “while her wounds are healed, she remains sick.”

“She has an infection?” The alien’s brow furrowed.

“Not anymore,” Jon continued, “her infection was cured by our doctor, but now--“

“She sleeps,” the man finished for him. “Yes, that is a common problem once someone is injured and becomes infected.” He looked at Jon strangely, “But I would have thought you would know this already. The long sleep after an injury is well-known.”

Jon looked at Trip, and Trip felt his friend’s great uneasiness. This was what they had been afraid of, being discovered as foreigners for not already knowing about what was causing Hoshi’s strange condition.

“We have been blessed with no injuries in our family,” Malcolm suddenly spoke up, “so we have not needed to pay much attention to this information, until now.” Trip smiled to himself, the boy sure could be quick on his feet.

“I understand,” the man said, and gave Jon another warm smile. He clapped Jon on the shoulder, “you are well blessed to have such fine and loyal brothers to travel with you,” he said, indicating Malcolm and Trip, “I am sorry for the illness of your daughter.” Before Jon could react to that statement, the man was gently pulling Jon by the arm along the sidewalk. “Come,” he said, “you will stay at my house. My sons will feed you and help prepare your brothers for their journey.”

Behind Jon’s back, Trip exchanged another look with Malcolm. The Lieutenant’s face reflected Trip’s concern, but the sharp shake of his head told Trip that Malcolm was going to let this local lead them to his home and not interfere. Trip nodded curtly, letting Malcolm know that he understood. It was so easy, Trip thought, to automatically fall back into this kind of communication with Malcolm; where he readily comprehended every look, every gesture; speaking the language of their eyes.

* * *

T’Pol looked up sharply from her mediation.

Ensign Sato was still in front of her, sitting on the ground in the lotus position, hands open against her thighs, eyes closed. She was chanting softly to herself, lips moving as they formed the ancient words of connection. Whatever had disturbed T’Pol clearly had not affected the human woman.

T’Pol turned her head from side to side, looking out over the vast Vulcan landscape. Nothing appeared different or out of place. The sand and rocks were silent, still and lifeless under the rays of the twin suns. There was no wind, no breeze at all to create even a hint of sound. The silence was near absolute, broken only by the softness of Sato’s breathing and the whisper of chanting on her lips.

But still, something had disturbed her. T’Pol pressed her lips together in a small movement. The sensation that had pulled her from her meditation had not lessened and she found it distracting and unpleasant, yet there was no visual or auditory source for this sensation. T’Pol furrowed her brow slightly; most illogical.

Smoothly she rose to her feet, careful to not alarm the Ensign with her movement. Sato seemed caught up in her mediation, her eyes easily closed, her breathing slow and regular, and T’Pol did not want Sato’s calmness to be interrupted. She flared her nostrils, inhaling deeply, seeing if her superior Vulcan sense of smell could find the source of her disquiet. She could smell the unique scent of Sato, the heat of the air, the different, sharper heat of the landscape, nothing unexpected or out of place.

T’Pol stood, pondering. The sensation was still all around her, a feeling as if someone were tugging on her arm; tapping her shoulder, pulling at her hand. Yet, she could see, hear and smell nothing. Unless being in a mind-meld with the Ensign had somehow altered her mental facilities, T’Pol felt she could continue to assume that the sensations were real, even if they could not be sensed. Coming to a decision, T’Pol reached out her hands and closed her eyes.

She felt a strange shift; a sudden cooling of the air, a white light pressing against her eyelids. Slowly, she opened her eyes.

The Vulcan desert was gone, replaced by emptiness in the purest white T’Pol had ever seen. Ensign Sato still sat cross-legged on the ground before her, clearly deep in meditation. She no longer wore her Starfleet uniform. Her hair was down, flowing freely across her back. She was clothed in a robe that T’Pol recognized as being called a kimono. It was decorated with red and white cranes.

Ensign Elizabeth Cutler was standing in front of her, dressed in her pyjamas. Her hair dishevelled; eyes wide with panic. She was pulling on T’Pol’s arm.

“Oh thank God!” Cutler exclaimed when T’Pol looked at her, “you can see me! You can finally see me! Thank God!”

* * *

He hated this.

Once again, they were in a situation with potentially threatening aliens that was beyond his control. Malcolm felt a muscle bunch in his jaw as he watched the local half-pull, half-drag Captain Archer along the street toward what, presumably, would be his home. He had caught Trip looking at him, the Engineer’s expression eloquent as he had silently questioned whether or not Malcolm was just going to let them be carted off, God-knows-where. It had been a split-second decision, and one that Malcolm prayed he would not regret, but he had let the alien touch Archer and begin to lead them towards his house.

The male had said he knew what was wrong with Hoshi and that he was going to help. Malcolm knew they had no choice but to trust him.

But he was keeping his eyes open; his hand only centimetres from the phase pistol nestled in the hidden pocket in his jacket. He would not be caught off-guard a second time.

As they walked, Malcolm glanced surreptitiously at Trip. He knew that Trip had seen him react the first time the local had approached them and – knowing Trip – was probably itching with curiosity to find out why. It had just been the shock of recognition; this was the same man that had tried to wave them away and out of the line of fire the first time they had walked into town. The man had already had plenty of opportunity to do them harm and hadn’t taken it. Malcolm figured that the odds were now in their favour that this alien truly wanted to help them. And if not, well, he would deal with that when the time came.

Trip was looking straight ahead, attention clearly focused on the Captain and the local leading him by the arm. His brow was furrowed in worry, his hands fisted as they swung back-and-forth as he walked. Trip’s hair glinted yellow in the sunlight, a darker shade then the wool of his sweater, the colour of which made his eyes look fiercely blue. Unlike himself and the Captain, Trip had chosen a more casual outfit, something, Malcolm was sure Trip would have worn on his parent’s ranch at home. His blue pants looked like jeans and fit him perfectly, showing off his slim hips and muscular legs. He was handsome, no doubt. Malcolm felt the familiar twinge of longing and regret jar him as he regarded the other man. He had lost so much.

Hoshi had come to him in a dream asking him to talk to Trip; to finally tell Trip how he felt. Malcolm had that same night, rushing to Trip’s room unkempt and barefoot in his need to expose his heart and unburden his soul to the only man he knew he would ever love. But Trip had spurned him, told him that his protestations of affection were too little, too late to save a relationship already dead.

And he had no one to blame but himself.

It had seemed such a reasonable thing really, to break up with Trip after they had returned from crashing their shuttle pod. Liz had told him that Trip couldn’t take his self-sacrificing behaviour, and Malcolm had decided to spare Trip the pain and had set him free. But things had changed since then and Malcolm could no longer remember why his original decision had seemed so sound, so rational at the time. Then in a tragedy of misplaced heroism, Trip had been burned by one of his crew and had refused Malcolm’s offer of rescue.

Malcolm had never felt so helpless.

Suddenly he had felt that he didn’t want to be with Trip anymore, because Trip was fragile and because he knew that losing Trip would destroy him. That it would tear him to pieces until there was nothing left of Lieutenant Reed at all. It had seemed so much safer to keep away from the Commander, and Malcolm had done just that.

But then Hoshi had nearly died, and then somehow entered his dream and reminded Malcolm of the delicate temperament of life and the ephemeral nature of happiness, and all at once Malcolm had realized that he loved Trip. _Loved_ him with every atom of his being and, terrified and giddy with hope, he had gone to Trip’s cabin in the middle of the night to make every thing perfect again. But it had ended in total disaster.

That had been just yesterday. Malcolm closed his eyes for a moment against the memory; the wound was still raw enough to bleed.

There was a gentle touch on his arm. “Y’alright?” Trip asked him quietly, blue eyes soft with concern, “you looked about a million miles away for a second there.”

Malcolm looked away. “I’m fine, Commander,” he said, wishing it were true.

“Here we are,” the alien exclaimed, pointing with obvious pride at a tall structure. It looked, for all intents and purposes almost exactly like a log cabin from the American frontier. There was a small fenced-in garden at the front with unfamiliar plants in a rich green, and what appeared to be a duck-pond just beside it with almost duck-like waterfowl squawking and tipping their heads underwater. A large fenced-in area was at the back of the house, home to five of the rhinoceros-like beasts in varying shades of lavender. The scene was idyllic, and Malcolm shot a quick look at Trip, recognizing the expression of pure homesickness that flitted over the other man’s face. For an instant, Malcolm reached out his hand to touch him; to let him know that he sensed Trip’s longing, and understood. He drew his hand back; he had no right to offer him comfort anymore.

The alien let go of Archer’s arm and started walking towards the front door, beckoning with his hand. “Come,” he said.

* * *

They were sitting at a long wooden table, eating apples.

Or at least, what passed for apples on this planet. Jon sliced off another slice of the crisp pink-and-green fruit and raised his eyebrows questioningly at the small boy standing in front of him. “Want some?”

The boy smiled shyly, showing a row of pointed teeth. He reached up his hand and gently took the offered piece from Jon’s fingers, popping it in his mouth.

The man who had brought them here was sitting at the table with them, leaning back in his chair, watching them eat. There were two older boys standing behind the man’s chair, looking wary, protective and curious all at the same time. Three younger boys, looking to range in age from about eight to 13, were standing nearer the door, blatantly curious. Then there was the little one who had come right over to Jon and stood directly in front of him, fingers in his mouth, clearly torn between fear of these strangers and a desire to know all about them. Plus the apples seemed to be some sort of special treat, if Jon had read the look of longing correctly in the child’s dark eyes. The piece he had given him had certainly disappeared fast enough. Jon gave the child a wink, and passed him another piece. The boy giggled, and took the slice. Jon grinned back and ate a section of the fruit himself. It was juicy and tart; delicious. He hoped it wasn’t poisonous for humans.

Jon looked at the other officers. Trip was sitting across from him, leaning with one arm on the table, munching contentedly on his apple. He was making faces at what Jon supposed was another little child standing by him, but only a tiny bit of curly black hair was visible over the top of the table. Malcolm was sitting beside Trip, looking ill at ease. His eyes were surveying the room in what Jon knew was his constant vigilance for their safety. The apple he had been given sat on a plate in front of him, untouched. Jon sighed to himself. Malcolm took his job as protector of the crew very seriously, and he did it very well. Why had he decided to transfer? Jon shook his head, suddenly annoyed with himself. He had been angry at Malcolm since the transfer request had first arrived on his desk; angry because Malcolm had not spoken to him first before making that decision. Yet, he had never questioned his decision either, too upset about Hoshi’s injury to take the time to see what was up with his Lieutenant. It was time he rectified that situation.

“My name is Arun,” the man said finally, after Jon had finished his apple and put the core neatly onto his plate, “these are my near-men sons,” he gestured at the two young men behind him, “Aruni and Lamo. They,” he continued, indicating the three boys by the doorway, “are my middle sons, Davi, Juno and Vas, and the little one in front of you is my baby boy, Milko.” Just at that moment, Trip reached down and picked up the little child that had been in front of him and put it on his lap. Jon saw immediately that it was a tiny little girl. The hair he had seen was a bun of curls pulled high on her head. Arun smiled broadly, showing his pointy teeth. “I see you have found Mado, the pride and joy of the family,” he said. “The White Priestesses were generous, and blessed me with a daughter. I am most fortunate among men.”

Jon smiled back at the man, “You have a wonderful family. You must be proud.”

“I am,” Arun agreed, “family is all that is important in the world.” He smiled at Jon, “I hope the Priestesses will be kind and bless me with one more child before my years are too advanced.”

Trip was bouncing the little girl on his knee, quietly singing a song to her in time with his movement. She was looking up at him, almost smiling despite her shyness. Her eyes were dark like the rest of her family, and her horns were a light tan in colour, standing out against her brown skin. She was terribly cute, and Jon found some of the tension he had been carrying around since Hoshi’s injury beginning to dissipate. Arun clearly loved his children; everything would be all right. A thought struck Jon and he looked sharply back at Arun. Just as he had remembered, the man’s horns and skin were a greyish colour. He looked at the other children, and was surprised to realize that all the boys had greyish skin tones like their father, except for the little girl. Were women significantly different then men on this planet? Is that why Arun had assumed that Hoshi was his daughter, even though her Asian features were so different from his Caucasian ones?

Before he could ponder that further, he felt a persistent tapping on his leg. Milko was trying to get his attention. Jon looked down at him, immediately understanding what he wanted, and hoisted the little boy onto his lap. Milko snuggled against him, sighing contentedly. He began playing with the buttons on Jon’s jacket.

“Now, about Hoshi,” Malcolm said, breaking the comfortable silence that had filled the room, “you said that you knew how to help her?”

“Yes,” Arun said, “I had not forgotten.” He looked questioningly at Malcolm, “is it not customary where you come from to eat and rest first, before discussion?”

A faint pink tinge touched Malcolm’s cheeks, “Of course,” he replied, “I’m just concerned.”

“Naturally,” Arun said, “were my niece to be suffering from the eternal sleep, I would be as well.” He turned towards Jon, “If you feel properly refreshed, I will be happy to tell you about the sleeping sickness, and the journey your brothers must take.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw Trip and Malcolm exchange a look. Arun had mentioned his ‘brothers’ having to go somewhere before. “I’m ready for your information,” Jon said, “thank you for the fruit, it was delicious.”

“I fear Milko may have eaten more of the _Pom_ then you did,” Arun said with a smile, “but I am glad you enjoyed them.” He leaned his arms on the table, “You have not offered, but now we are friends, may I ask your good names?”

Jon felt a rush of heat to his face. In his surprise at coming to Arun’s house, he had forgotten the most basic of courtesies. “Of course,” he said, “My name is Jon, and this is Trip and Malcolm.”

“Jon, Trip, Malco.” Arun repeated, “Your father must be strong to have had such strong sons.”

“Thank you,” Trip replied; humour sparkling in his eyes, “we like to think so.” He had stopped bouncing Mado, and the little girl had snuggled against him, eyes closed. Another sucker for Trip’s charm, Jon thought.

Jon saw Malcolm shift position, impatience radiating off him like heat. “About this sickness?” the Lieutenant asked suddenly.

“When a person is wounded,” Arun said, directing his dialogue towards Jon, “and they get an infection, the fever burns away the connection between their body and their soul. The soul then leaves the body, moving onto the second plain of existence. But since the connection has been destroyed, the soul is unable to come back.” Arun leaned back in his chair, shrugging his shoulders, “The body is then an empty vessel, alive but not animated, asleep until the soul can be found and brought back.”

Trip gave a low whistle. “Is that what’s happened to Hoshi?”

Arun shrugged again, “You said that she had an infection after her injury, and now she will not waken. I can think of no other reason but this.”

“And how do we fix this?” Malcolm asked, leaning forward in his chair, “how do we get her soul back?”

Arun eyed Jon, “Your youngest brother is most impatient.”

Trip laughed, “I guess our mama was too easy on him.”

There was a collective intake of breath from the other boys in the room. “You knew your mother?” The second-oldest – Lamo – said, gaping at Trip.

Arun narrowed his eyes. “Davi, take Juno, Vas and Milko outside.”

“Daddy!” Davi, the eldest of the middle-sons, exclaimed, “I’m almost a near-man! Why do I have to go?”

“You will not be a near-man until the winter harvest, Davi,” Arun said, looking sharply at the boy. He softened his gaze, “I know you are impatient for that time, but I need you to look after your brothers.”

Davi gave a half-hearted smile, “Okay daddy,” he said. He grabbed the shirts of the two boys that were standing near him and pushed them towards the door, “Outside!” With a chorus of “awwwws!” Juno and Vas went out. Davi then turned towards Milko, who was still sitting in Jon’s lap.

“C’mon, Milko,” Davi said, “time to go.”

“Flat teeth,” Milko replied, pointing at Jon’s mouth. “His teeth are flat, like a horsy.”

Davi frowned and picked up the little boy, who immediately began shrieking. “Nice to meet you!” Davi shouted over Milko’s screams. He pushed through the door and went out. Milko’s cries quieting as Davi walked through the adjoining room towards the door.

Arun looked at Jon, “Who are you?” He said, expression cold.

“Just a father worried about his children,” Jon said, hoping he looked sincere as possible, “like yourself.”

“Your brother,” and the way Arun stressed the words made Jon think he no longer believed it, “said that you knew your mother.”

Trip sat up, careful to not disturb the child sleeping on his lap, “Now wait a minute!” he said, “I never said that--"

“The White Priestesses give us our children,” Arun continued, “when we are chosen, we will go to the Priestesses and lie with them. If we are blessed, we will come back two seasons later for our child. If we are extremely blessed, the child we come for will be a girl. Children are born by the White Priestesses. They do not have mothers.” Arun narrowed his eyes, “But somehow I think you did not know this.”

Malcolm’s hand flinched towards the phase pistol in his jacket, and Jon raised his fingers to signal him to stop. Malcolm nodded slightly, clearly displeased. He turned back to Arun. “You are correct,” Jon said, “we didn’t know.” He flicked his eyes up at the two young men standing behind Arun. They looked menacing; Aruni’s hands were clenched into fists. If it came to a fight, they would be well-matched.

“I ask again,” Arun said, “who are you?”

Jon made a quick decision and prayed that T’Pol would forgive him for it. “My name is Jonathan Archer,” he said, “I’m the Captain of a spaceship called _Enterprise._ These men,” he gestured towards Trip and Malcolm, “are Trip Tucker, my Commander, and Malcolm Reed, my Armoury Officer. The woman who was wounded is Hoshi Sato,” Jon paused, unsure of the wisdom of his next words, “she’s my Communications Officer, not my daughter.”

“Ah,” Arun said, “I see.”

The room was silent as Arun clearly pondered this information. Aruni stayed quiet behind Arun, but it was obvious that Lamo was bursting with questions, quiet only out of respect for his father. After several minutes of uncomfortable silence, Arun finally spoke. “Hoshi is the daughter-of-your-heart,” he said, “you have travelled many miles to find a way to cure her. These men are like your brothers, and your family is strong.”

Jon found himself smiling and meeting Trip and Malcolm’s eyes in turn. “Yes,” he said, “my family is strong.”

Arun smiled back and was once again the warm man they had met on the street. “I do not understand your talk of ‘spaceships’ and ‘ _Enterprises_ ’, he said, “but I do understand the love of a family.” He turned towards his sons, “Aruni, pack Trip and Malco a bag for their journey. They must go see Old Grimbaldi on the mountain.” Aruni nodded, and turned to go, “Don’t forget water and blankets!” Arun said, touching the young man’s arm as he passed. Aruni nodded, gave his father a small smile, and went into the other room. Lamo moved to take his spot behind Arun.

“I will send Lamo off with Trip and Malco after we have eaten the mid-day meal,” Arun explained, “Lamo will lead them to the path on the mountain so that they might find Old Grimbaldi to help your daughter. Jon,” Arun continued, “you will stay here with me tonight, as befits the eldest man of the house.” He leaned forward again, his eyes twinkling, “perhaps you can speak to your _Enterprise?_ to have Hoshi brought to my house?” It was clear that Arun thought the idea of a spaceship very funny, “Old Grimbaldi will have to treat her here, once he is brought down from the mountain”

Jon nodded, “I’ll get on that right away.” He stood to go outside to use his communicator. He may have just told Arun that they were spacemen, but it didn’t mean he had to show off their technology as well. “Shall I send the boys back in when I’m outside?”

“Please,” Arun replied, “they should be impossible with questions now.” He stood as well, “Lamo, please go to the shed and collect some eggs for the meal.” The boy nodded and disappeared through the door. “I will go help Arun pack your bags,” he said, clapping Jon on the shoulder, “You have spun an entertaining tale, Jonathan Archer,” he continued, “Tonight I hope you will tell me more.” So saying, he went through the door. Jon turned to follow him, stopped as an idea struck him.

“Malcolm,” he said, and had to grin as the Lieutenant nearly leaped out of his chair.

“Yes sir?”

“Come with me while I contact Travis,” Jon replied, gesturing towards the doorway, “I want to talk to you about something.” Malcolm nodded curtly in response and quickly moved around the table to the doorway. They went through.

“Cap’n?” Trip’s plaintive cry was muffled by the heavy door, “Y’all gonna leave me here?”

“Shhh!” Jon admonished, opening the door again and looking back at Trip, “don’t wake the baby!” Chuckling, he let the door close behind him, silencing Trip’s further protests.

Malcolm was standing just beyond the doorway, in what was obviously the house’s living room. “Sir,” he said.

Jon clapped him on the back, “Come on, Lieutenant,” he said, “let’s go talk.”

* * *

“You can see me! Thank God!” Liz exclaimed, clutching T’Pol’s arm. She felt weak and faint with relief. Someone could finally see her. Maybe she would be able to go home.

“What are you doing here, Ensign?” T’Pol said, eyebrow raised as she gently removed her arm from Liz’s grasp. “I was under the impression that I was alone with Ensign Sato.”

“Hoshi?” Immediately she felt the hard sting of tears. “She’s dead.”

T’Pol’s eyebrow raised even further. “Ms. Sato is not dead, Ensign.” T’Pol replied, “Her mind has become trapped in this environment, but she still lives.”

The fear that had gripped her since she had woken with Hoshi’s distorted and violent face inches from her own, surged again. “You don’t understand,” she cried, “it’s not Hoshi that’s in this place, it’s something horrible – something evil!” She clutched T’Pol’s upper arms, “we have to get out of here before she comes back!”

“I do not believe in ghosts,” T’Pol said, looking squarely at Liz, “I understand that you are frightened, and perhaps your imagination is conjuring up images that are unusual, but Hoshi is not a ghost. She means you no harm.” T’Pol turned her head, indicating an area off to her left. “Ms. Sato is sitting right there,” T’Pol said, “meditating.”

Liz dropped T’Pol’s arms and whipped her head towards the spot, heart pounding.

There was nothing there.

Liz looked back at T’Pol, the intense rush of fear fading. “I don’t see anything,” she said. She crossed her arms, suddenly wary. “How did you get here?”

T’Pol’s face remained impassive. “I have mind-melded with Ms. Sato in sick bay.” she said, “The link led me here.” She looked over towards the blank area again, “I can clearly see Ensign Sato sitting down with her legs crossed. She is wearing a kimono.” She turned back to Liz, “You cannot see her.”

Liz shook her head, “No.”

“Most illogical,” T’Pol said. She moved to the space she had indicated and knelt down, looking like she was gently shaking nothing by the shoulder. Liz remained where she was, feeling suspicious and afraid. If Hoshi wasn’t dead, what was that thing that had tried to grab her? To slice her apart with its vicious claws and fangs?

“There’s nothing there!” Liz called to her, “Hoshi’s dead!” She felt sadness pour through her, relentless and unyielding. “She’s dead,” she called again, the words burning in her throat.

T’Pol disappeared.

Liz gasped, eyes wide with shock. Her heart started to pound in her chest. She was completely alone.

She heard a sound behind her, an eerie mournful wailing. She whirled, hands up, ready to defend herself.

It was Hoshi, face contorted and nearly as white as the nothingness behind her. Her eyes were filmy grey, her lips deep, blood red. Her hands were twisted into claws, her fingers ending in long, brutal points. “Liz,” she howled, “Liz, I need you!” The creature grabbed her forearms, talons digging painfully into her flesh, ripping through the skin. “Why won’t you help me, Liz?” The ghost continued, “I love you! Why won’t you help me?”

Liz screamed and flailed out at the monster. Her fist connected with its face, and its head snapped back, its grip loosening. Liz kicked at it, twisting her arms in its grasp, and suddenly she was free. She turned and ran, horror and grief squeezing her heart, tears streaming down her face. Her arms were bleeding, every drop of blood a brilliant crimson stain against the endless field of white.

She could hear Hoshi’s footsteps, her inhuman cries right behind her. She looked over her shoulder, desperately trying to see how close it was, and ran hard into something. The blow knocked her off her feet, and she started to scramble backwards, terror clouding her senses, chasing away all rational thought.

“Stop, Ensign!” T’Pol cried, “That is an order!”

She stopped, T’Pol’s sharp command forcing its way through to the rational part of her mind. She looked up at the Vulcan from her position on the floor; put her head in her hands. “I can’t take this,” she whimpered, “I think I’m going insane.”

She felt cool fingers touch her hands, moving them away from her face. “You are not insane, Ms. Cutler,” T’Pol said, and Liz would swear that her tone was kind, “it appears that your consciousness and that of Ms. Sato’s are on two separate plains; for some reason, neither of you have been able to cross over completely to the other. I believe the visions you are experiencing of Ms. Sato are merely her attempts to contact you.”

Liz felt a small ember of hope begin to glow in her chest. “Hoshi is alive?” she whispered.

“As I told you,” T’Pol said, “her consciousness has become trapped in this reality.” T’Pol stood, helping Liz to her feet. “Now,” the Vulcan continued, “please explain to me how you ended up here, with Ms. Sato.”

Liz shook her head, “It was so strange,” she rubbed her arm with her hand, remembering. Her fingers brushed over her puncture wounds, felt the oozing of blood, and she immediately stopped; dropped her hands. “I was in my bed,” she said finally, “the alarm had just gone off, and I think I was dozing. I heard Hoshi’s voice, and when I opened my eyes, I was here and,” Liz gave an involuntary shudder, “she was chasing after me, hands turned into claws, her mouth all red and bloody.”

“That is not possible,” T’Pol stated flatly, “you were at your duty station this morning. You only came to sick bay in the afternoon, stating that Ms. Sato was ‘screaming in your head.’”

Liz looked at her, stunned. “I went to my duty station? How could I? I’ve been here!”

T’Pol tilted her head in a small movement. “I think I may understand what has happened to you, Ensign, and why you are unable to communicate with Ms. Sato.” Liz nodded vigorously, encouraging the Sub-Commander to continue. “I believe,” T’Pol said, “that Ms. Sato attempted to contact you this morning, once she found that she was unable to leave this place. However, since you were not entirely asleep, her link with you was imperfect, and she was able to access only a fraction of your consciousness. The rest of your mind was able to continue, with your connection to Ms. Sato acting as only a small distraction. But as the day wore on, you became less and less able to ignore your link, resulting in your arrival to sick bay.”

“Why can’t I see Hoshi?” Liz cried, “Why does her ghost keep attacking me?”

“I think that it is your mind’s response to the stress of Ms. Sato’s continued attempts to contact you. Since it was causing you physical pain, your mind has interpreted it as something unpleasant.”

“It’s not real?” Liz breathed, “The ghost isn’t real?”

T’Pol shook her head, “It appears that things in this reality are made real by the force of our minds.” She lifted one of Liz’s arms by her elbow. “As you can see, the wounds left by your last encounter with the ghost are quite real.”

“So, as long as I’m here, that thing can hurt me?” Liz said, a thrill of fear curling up her spine.

“Yes,” T’Pol said succinctly, “however, I appear to be able to move between your current reality and that of Ms. Sato’s. I will ask her to sever her link with you. It should return you to your body on *Enterprise.*”

“Thank you,” she said, voice thick with emotion.

T’Pol nodded. “I will return to Ms. Sato.” She began walking away.

“Wait!”

T’Pol turned. “Yes, Ensign?”

Liz swallowed hard, “Tell Hoshi – tell her I love her?”

T’Pol nodded again and turned away. She took a few steps out into the nothingness, and was gone.

* * *

Malcolm stood in an at-ease position, teeth clenched, waiting.

The Captain seemed to be taking an inordinately long time making arrangements with Travis to bring Hoshi down from _Enterprise_ to the planet. It appeared that they were discussing the merits of taking her in the shuttle pod versus transporting her directly to Arun’s house.

“I know it will be a long walk from where the shuttle will be landing,” Archer was saying in response to whatever argument Travis had broached, “but I just don’t feel comfortable having her materialize right in their living room. Knowing we’re not from this planet is one thing, seeing proof before their eyes is something completely different.”

The Captain had his back to him, but Malcolm could tell by the set of the other man’s shoulders that Archer was not enjoying the discussion. Malcolm couldn’t understand why he didn’t just give the Ensign an order and be done with it but, as always, that just wasn’t Archer’s way. He wanted everyone’s opinion on everything, all the time. Malcolm took a deep breath, trying to get a handle on his frustration and impatience. It wouldn’t do to start this conversation in a hostile mood. Lord knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant as it was.

“Okay then, see you tomorrow morning.” Archer closed his communicator with an audible snap and turned towards Malcolm, shaking his head. “Travis really likes to use the transporter,” he laughed, “he wanted to beam up to the ship, then beam back down with Hoshi.”

Malcolm wasn’t sure what to say. Travis’ idea didn’t sound implausible, but clearly Archer had vetoed it. Did the Captain want his approval for his decision? “I think the shuttle pod will be less conspicuous then beaming them right into Arun’s house,” Malcolm said finally.

“That’s what I thought,” Archer agreed. He smirked at Malcolm. “Nice to know you back me up.”

Malcolm felt himself blush. “Sir.”

Archer laughed again, then gracefully sat down on the ground. They were at the back of Arun’s home, in between the house and the pens for the animals. The terrain was covered with what looked like lush, thick grass in a shade of green so dark it appeared almost black. The sky was a brilliant shade of blue, and a few wispy clouds drifted by overhead. For a moment, Malcolm wondered if blue sky was a universal constant. That no matter what planet you were on, the sky would always be a reminder of home.

Arun’s four younger sons were a few feet away, playing some sort of game that involved a lot of running and tumbling. Every once in a while, snippets of their conversation would reach the two men, too far away to be translated, but unmistakable in it’s childish glee. The game looked like a variation of ‘cops and robbers,’ as little Milko appeared to be being herded somewhere at gunpoint. It was a strange reflection of the gun fight that had wounded Hoshi in the first place, a reminder that this world was not as peaceful or as safe as it seemed.

Archer patted the ground beside him. “At ease, Lieutenant,” he said, “come, sit down. Enjoy being outdoors for a bit.”

Malcolm paused a moment, then complied. He knew Archer would order him to sit if he resisted, and he didn’t want to deal with that minor humiliation. The Captain wanted to be informal, so be it. Malcolm sat beside him, careful to make sure that they weren’t close enough to touch.

“After being on the ship so long, I keep forgetting how good it feels to have sun on my face,” Archer said, leaning his head back. “We really should try for shore leave more often.”

Malcolm looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Shore leave has been difficult to obtain,” he said, hoping once again it was the right thing to say.

“You can say that again,” Archer sighed, “I believe the last time we attempted to get the crew down planetside, you got stuck to the hull.” His eyes crinkled as he said it, and Malcolm realised he was making a small joke. He smiled back and Archer turned to face him, “but you can’t say it hasn’t been interesting, can you?” he said, lips still curved upwards.

“No, you can’t,” Malcolm agreed. Being outside in the warm sun, sitting on the ground, listening to the children play really was a nice change from the grey walls of the ship, and Malcolm found himself relaxing. He braced himself on his hands, leaned back. A companionable silence descended, broken only by the laugher of the boys as they played.

“So, tell me about your decision to transfer off the ship,” Archer said abruptly, snapping Malcolm’s calm like a twig underfoot.

“I beg your pardon?” he stammered, staling for time.

“I want to know what made you decide to leave _Enterprise,_ Malcolm,” Archer repeated, “I think, as your Captain, I deserve to hear your reason.” The Captain was smiling as he said the words, but Malcolm could still sense the underlying disappointment. Is that why Archer had been so angry with him? Because he hadn’t spoken to him about it first?

Malcolm had decided several days ago that he no longer wanted to transfer, but hadn’t had a chance to inform Archer before Hoshi was wounded. After that, it had seemed like Archer was just waiting for the day when Malcolm would leave his ship, his manner oscillating between hostility and cold professionalism, and Malcolm hadn’t mentioned it again. Perhaps he had been wrong in his assumption? Maybe Hoshi had been right when she told him the Captain was just angry she had gotten hurt, and hadn’t really meant to give Malcolm the impression that he wanted him to leave? But that didn’t mean that he wanted to tell Archer all about his abortive relationship with Trip, either. He frowned, uncertain. “It was based on a personal matter.”

Archer cocked an eyebrow, “A personal matter?”

Malcolm felt the blood rising to his face a second time. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“And you don’t want to tell me.” It wasn’t a question.

Malcolm met his gaze. “I don’t think it would be fair to the other parties involved, sir.”

Archer’s expression became incredulous. “I don’t believe this!”

Malcolm was taken aback. “Sir?”

Archer glared at him. “Let me guess,” he said, “you and Trip broke up.”

Malcolm felt his mouth fall open. “How – how did you know?”

“Malcolm!” Archer cried, “Trip is my best friend! I’ve known him for almost ten years!”

“He told you,” Malcolm said. The betrayal was a cold stab in his heart.

Archer rolled his eyes. “No Malcolm, he did not tell me. I meant that, after almost ten years, I know the man pretty well. I know when he’s in love, and I know when it’s not working. Trust me,” he said, “I knew something had happened.”

“But you never said anything,” Malcolm said, confused. “We’re bridge crew, commanding officers – and of different rank! Why didn’t you stop us?”

“Because you weren’t doing anything wrong,” Archer sighed, exasperation evident. “You both were discrete, and kept your interactions at work professional.” He laughed suddenly, “Hell, it took me almost two months to figure out it was you Trip was going out with.”

“And you didn’t mind?” Malcolm couldn’t keep the astonishment from his voice.

“No, I didn’t mind,” the Captain said, “in fact, I was happy that Trip had finally found someone worth his while.”

“Oh.” Malcolm was at a loss for words.

“I thought you were good for Trip,” Archer continued, “mature, stable, a good head on your shoulders. All the reasons I brought you on board in the first place.” He paused, looked hard at Malcolm. “But that was before you pulled this stunt.”

Malcolm thinned his lips at the Captain’s words. “It seemed to be for the best,” he paused, “sir.”

“Best? For who?” Archer said, “Not for you. Returning to Starfleet command would set back your career considerably. And you know it wouldn’t be good for _Enterprise_ to lose you.” The Captain’s eyes narrowed. “It sure as hell wouldn’t be best for Trip.”

Malcolm met the Captain’s challenging gaze with one of his own. “I thought it would be best for you.”

Archer was clearly taken aback. “Me?”

“After Hoshi was shot,” Malcolm said, allowing a touch of anger to colour his voice, “you told me in no uncertain terms that you thought it would be a good idea if I left _Enterprise._ ”

“I did?” Archer frowned, puzzled. “When?”

“In decon,” Malcolm replied stiffly, “after we brought Hoshi to sick bay.”

“Decon…” The Captain tilted his head slightly, thinking. Suddenly he closed his eyes, grimaced. “I remember,” he said, opened his eyes again. “I asked you if you were still thinking of transferring, and when you said you were, I agreed with you that it would be a good idea; or something like that.”

“Yes.” Malcolm said, upset. How could he have forgotten that? Malcolm thought to himself, Didn’t the Captain know how much that simple statement had affected him? He felt another burn of anger in the pit of his stomach. Was he really so unimportant?

Archer was looking at him, expression strangely vulnerable. “Now I know why you never came to talk to me about you request,” he said. “I owe you an apology, Malcolm, I was angry and upset that Hoshi got hurt and I took it out on you.” He looked straight at him. “I’m sorry I let my temper get the better of me. You didn’t deserve it.”

It was Malcolm’s turn to be taken aback, the last thing he had expected was for Archer to apologize. “But it was my fault, sir,” he stammered, “if I hadn’t been so careless--"

Archer raised his hand and Malcolm immediately fell silent. “It wasn’t your fault. You can’t blame yourself for what happened,” he said, sincerely, “I don’t blame you.”

They sat in silence for a while, Malcolm absorbing what Archer had told him. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “If it’s all right then, Captain,” he started, paused, tried again. “Sir, if you don’t mind--"

Archer cut him off. “I never signed the request,” he said, winking, “I wasn’t going to let you go. You’re too important to _Enterprise_ , don’t forget that.”

Malcolm found himself smiling in return. “Thank you sir,” he said.

“Don’t mention it,” The Captain replied. He got to his feet, looked back towards the house. “We should probably head back in,” he said, “Trip is most likely wondering where we are.”

“No doubt,” Malcolm grinned.

Archer looked over to where the children were still playing. “I told Arun I’d get his boys for him,” he said, “want to help me round them up?”

“Yes, sir!” Malcolm laughed. They walked over together.

* * *

They had been walking for a long time.

Trip stopped a moment to re-adjust the pack on his shoulders and to wipe some sweat off his forehead. It was early fall on the planet, and while the mornings and evenings were still cold, at mid-afternoon it was as hot as summer. He had taken off his sweater a while ago, but the cotton shirt he was wearing was still sticking uncomfortably to his back, not nearly as cool as their Starfleet warm-weather gear. Suppressing a sigh he began walking again. He didn’t want Malcolm to get too far ahead, although he had to confess the view of Malcolm’s backside really wasn’t bad at all.

They had been walking for just over an hour and still had not reached the base of the mountain where ‘Old Grimbaldi’ was meant to reside. Trip had no idea who – or what – this Old Grimbaldi guy was supposed to be, but if he could help Hoshi, then it was worth every minute of exertion. He glanced at the young alien walking by his side, and worth every one of Lamo’s questions, too. Like the one Lamo was asking now.

“Are you married?” Lamo said, looking up at Trip with a wistful expression in his large, dark eyes.

Without meaning to, Trip let his gaze move back to Malcolm. “No,” he said heavily, “I’m not.”

“My father isn’t, either.” Lamo replied, and Trip could hear the note of sadness in the young man’s voice.

“That must be hard,” Trip said, “your dad raisin’ seven kids on his own, and all.”

“Oh no,” Lamo said quickly, “dad did have help. Our papa died last year, just after Mado was born.”

Trip stopped in his tracks. “Your papa?” he said stupidly.

“My daddy’s husband,” Lamo said, halting his steps as well, “his name was Jun. Juno is named after him.” Trip could see his eyes get shiny and Lamo blinked rapidly. “He was caught in a gunfight in town, just like your niece.”

“Jesus,” Trip swore softly, “I’m sorry, Lamo.”

The boy gave him a watery smile, “He had a good life, and was a good father,” he said, “the White Priestesses have made sure his soul will find it’s way to the third plane.”

Trip started walking again, shook his head. “This place – your farm – seems so peaceful, and yet there’s so much violence in the town.”

“Uh huh,” Lamo agreed, “it’s from the lost men. Those men who are not chosen to be fathers.” He shrugged, “They have nothing else to do with their lives but hurt others.”

Trip looked over at him, “So not every man gets to be a dad?”

“Nope,” Lamo replied, “only those specially selected by the Priestesses.”

“And what do you have to do to get chosen?” Trip raised an eyebrow.

“Well, you have to be smart, and kind, and proven your patience and maturity,” Lamo said, and it sounded like something he had learned in school and memorized long ago. “You must show that you would love your child more than you love anything in the world – more than you love yourself.” Lamo smiled, “That’s why my dad has so many children, because we are more important to him than his own life.”

Trip returned the boy’s smile, “Yeah,” he said, “I can see that.”

“Jun had been chosen, too.” Lamo continued, “Vas, Juno and Milko are his sons.”

“So, Mado is Arun’s daughter?”

Lamo looked confused for a second, “No,” he said, “Mado is the daughter of the White Priestesses. Her father is unknown.”

“Unknown?” Trip repeated, puzzled, “then how did Arun get to be her father?”

Lamo smiled again, “Women are the light of the universe,” he said, again sounding like he was quoting a text-book, “the bearers of children; the bringers of life. They belong to no one but themselves. Daughters are almost always raised by the Priestesses directly,” he explained, “but sometimes, if a man is found particularly worthy, he will be given a daughter to raise. That’s how we got Mado.”

“Wow,” Trip said. He paused to hoist his knapsack again.

“I hope to be worthy of a daughter someday,” Lamo said wistfully, “I’d love to have a daughter.”

Trip smiled down at the young man, “Yeah, me too.”

They walked in companionable silence for a bit, Trip enjoying being outside in the fresh air, grass crunching delicately beneath his feet. Every once in a while, Malcolm would look behind him to check on their progress, and Trip would give him a professional nod, wishing he felt that he could smile at the other man. The Lieutenant had seemed to be in a better mood after his talk with the Captain. Lighter somehow, as if there was a load off his mind. But as soon as he had been left alone with Trip, the mood had dissipated. Malcolm had gone on ahead without saying a word to either of them. Trip knew he had to talk to Malcolm, at the very least to end this painful tension between them. His thoughts were interrupted by Lamo’s voice, asking yet another question.

“When Hoshi gets her soul back, will she be going to your Priestesses?”

The question startled Trip, “What?”

“All women here become White Priestesses before the age of 30,” Lamo clarified, “is it the same on Earth?”

Trip suppressed a chuckle. “No,” he replied, “on Earth, women pretty much do what they want. Some become Priestesses, but not all of them.” At Lamo’s blatantly confused look he continued, “On Earth, women can take any job they want. They can be an Engineer like me, or a farmer, like your dad.” Lamo was paying rapt attention, so Trip decided to tell him more, “Women tend to chose one other person to be their partner, like Jun and Arun,” he said, “some women will chose other women, some will chose men. Then, once they’ve chosen a partner, they will have children together.” He shrugged apologetically, “we don’t have White Priestesses. Women keep the children they have with the partner they’ve chosen.”

Lamo’s eyes were nearly popping out of his head, “Women do jobs? _Any_ job?”

“Yup,” Trip responded.

“And all men have the chance to become fathers?”

Trip nodded his head. “Uh huh. All of them.”

“It sounds chaotic,” Lamo shuddered. “How do you make sure the parents are good ones?”

Trip looked at Malcolm’s back and frowned slightly, thinking of the small bit Malcolm had shared about his difficult childhood. “You don’t.”

“Oh,” Lamo said quietly, “how sad for you.”

“Sometimes,” Trip agreed, thinking of Malcolm, “sometimes it can be real sad.”

Real sad, Trip thought, like when your parents somehow raise you to think you’re life isn’t worth anything, that you don’t deserve to be happy, or loved. Trip’s frown deepened, thinking of how good Malcolm was at distancing himself, isolating himself from others, all because he was sure that no one cared about him all that much; that his life was only worth something if he could give it away. Trip knew this was true even though Malcolm had never said it, he figured that the Lieutenant felt that way because his parents never truly loved him. Oh sure, they might have clothed him and fed him, sent him to school and given him presents at Christmas and on his birthday, but there was a coldness there, a definitive lack of something that seemed to cling to Malcolm like a shadow. Like an echo of sadness only his ears could hear. It had taught Malcolm that he was unworthy of affection; that love came with strings attached and could be taken away at any moment. At one time, Trip had hoped he could help ease that pain; that his love would be so strong that Malcolm couldn’t help but realize how much he mattered, how important he was.

Boy, Trip grimaced to himself, had he screwed _that_ up.

The one time that Malcolm opened himself up, the one time in six months that he presented himself to Trip; raw, vulnerable, tears in his eyes and heart on his sleeve, Trip had shot him down like a clay pigeon.

The famous ‘Tucker temper’ had got the better of him, and Trip had let loose on Malcolm with both barrels, rejecting the other man’s declaration of love completely out-of-hand, telling him it was too little, too late, and the relationship was way past mending. Malcolm had left, devastated. They had barely talked since. But that wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst part was that Trip had lied. All he wanted in the whole world was to get back together with Malcolm. He loved him, had never stopped loving him. He probably never would. But he had ruined his chance; burnt every bridge between them with his callous words and quick temper.

Trip sighed deeply and re-adjusted his pack yet again. The ground was beginning to slope upwards now, and walking was becoming more difficult. He could feel drops of sweat forming on his brow, dripping down his face and into his eyes.

“We’re not far from the mountain now,” Lamo said beside him, panting a bit with effort.

“Good,” Trip grunted in reply. Before they left, Arun had said that Lamo would take them to the base of the mountain, but no further. It would be up to Trip and Malcolm to find Old Grimbaldi on their own. Trip was looking forward to having time alone with Malcolm. It was an opportunity to try to repair the rift between them, perhaps his only chance before Hoshi was healed and they returned to the ship; before Malcolm transferred off _Enterprise_ and they never saw each other again. He planned on making the most of the time they had.

He just hoped Malcolm would listen.

* * *

T’Pol still had not come back.

Hoshi paced across the red sand, boots kicking up small puffs of dust with every step. The proper shine of her boots and the cuff of her uniform were now mottled with red dust, and she was sure it clung to the seat of her pants where she had been sitting on the sand. She had thought about stopping to brush it off, but changed her mind. Standing still, worrying about her dress and deportment would not ease her tension the way that her constant pacing did. She made a face, not that her pacing was actually making her feel better.

Where was T’Pol? The Vulcan had suddenly woken her out of her meditation to tell her that she had found Liz, that Liz was there, but invisible, trapped between this world and the conscious plain. Hoshi had immediately demanded to go see her, but T’Pol had said that wasn’t possible. Only she could travel between them, and she needed to go back, to talk more with Liz to see if she knew anything that could help get Hoshi home.

But that had been a while ago, and T’Pol still wasn’t back yet.

Hoshi sighed and began walking faster, kicking her legs up higher with every step. If she did it forcefully enough, perhaps she could get the dust to rise up as far as her knees.

She had just finished one lap when T’Pol reappeared. The Sub-Commander looked a bit tired and as if she had a mild headache. Hoshi knew she must be feeling really badly to have even this minimal amount of discomfort show on her face. She ran over to her.

“What happened?” Hoshi cried, taking T’Pol’s arm and gently lowering her to sit on the ground, “are you al lright?”

“I am fine, Ensign,” T’Pol said as she sat, “I find however that I am growing fatigued. I must end our mind-meld soon.”

Hoshi fought down a rush of panic. T’Pol had told her she would only be able to stay for a little while; surely she would be okay on her own? Hoshi closed her eyes for a second and touched the link she had with Liz and gave a small sigh of relief. She could still feel the connection with the other woman; she wasn’t entirely alone.

T’Pol’s head snapped up. “You must not do that!” She said, a hint of alarm in her voice.

“Do what?” Hoshi said, surprised.

“You must not attempt to contact Ensign Cutler,” T’Pol replied, “every time you try to reach her, she experiences it as both frightening and violent.”

Hoshi sat down beside T’Pol, trepidation filling her. “Frightening?” she whispered, “Violent?”

“Yes,” T’Pol said, “she perceives your attempts at communication as the attack of a malevolent spirit, one intent on doing her harm. The most recent attack left claw marks in her arm.”

“Oh no,” Hoshi breathed, hands pressed to her mouth. She could feel her heart hammering in her chest. She had been hurting Liz?

T’Pol put her hand on Hoshi’s forearm. “You must sever your link with Ms. Cutler,” she said, “you have to let her go.”

Hoshi nodded her comprehension even as her eyes filled with tears. T’Pol would be leaving her, and now Liz would be, too. She would be all alone in this faceless universe, not quite alive, not nearly dead. How long would it take for her body to dry up, for her lungs to forget how to breathe; her heart to beat? She could be trapped here for decades. She moved her hands away from her face and let them lie in her lap. Her tears fell gently down her cheeks, unhindered. She concentrated for a second, feeling Liz’s essence slip through her fingers like ribbons in the wind.

“She’s gone,” Hoshi said, “I let her go.”

“Excellent,” T’Pol replied. She got heavily to her feet, actually leaning on Hoshi for support. “I must leave as well. I cannot sustain our connection for much longer.” She turned, looking at Hoshi intently, “you must not lose hope, Ensign,” she said, “The Captain will find a solution to your problem. We will not leave you here indefinitely.”

Hoshi swallowed hard and nodded. “Thanks.”

T’Pol touched her arm again in a gesture Hoshi knew was meant to reassure her. “I will return to you as soon as I am able,” she said, “and I have a message from Ms. Cutler. She asked me to tell you that she loves you.”

Hoshi nodded again, unable to speak.

T’Pol returned the nod, then vanished.

The red sands of Vulcan shimmered and disappeared. Hoshi was back in her kimono, adrift in a world of white. She sat down and put her head in her hands.

* * *

It was almost dark.

The sun had begun setting about half an hour ago, turning the sky to the most brilliant shades of yellow and red. Malcolm would have loved to have stopped their uphill trek to watch it, would have loved to sit down on the soft grass, his arms around Trip as they enjoyed the incredible beauty of this planet together.

But that was mere fantasy now. He might not be transferring off the ship, but he and Trip would not be sharing any more sunsets. The Commander had made it very clear that their relationship was over, finished as if it had never existed. Malcolm allowed himself a heavy sigh, shoving his pain and regret to the back of his mind. They had a mission to accomplish, after all, and he could not afford to be distracted. He would not let Hoshi down a second time.

Lamo had left them when they had reached the base of the mountain, showing them the path, and telling them they should be able to reach Grimbaldi’s hut by nightfall. He had said he’d be back sometime the next morning to bring them fresh supplies and take them back to Arun’s farmhouse. At that point, Trip would comm. Archer to let him know they were returning; and the Captain would contact Travis to have him load Hoshi’s body into the shuttle pod and fly her down to the planet. Archer would go out to meet Travis, and they should all arrive back at the house around the same time. Simple, neat. A fool-proof plan.

Except that it was almost nightfall and he and Trip hadn’t yet found the old man’s hut; except that the gentle path upward had disappeared, being replaced instead by a rock-strewn ground and a craggy cliff-face. Currently, they were searching around the base of the cliff for where the path might have gone, but so far their efforts had been fruitless. The one storm lantern Arun had given them cast a comforting glow, but not nearly enough light to aid in their search. Malcolm sighed again. Why was nothing ever easy when he and Trip were involved?

“There has to be another way up,” Trip said, raising the lantern in a useless attempt to get its beam to cover a greater area, “I mean, isn’t this guy meant to be _old?_ or somethin’?”

Malcolm turned to look at the other man. Trip was standing a few feet away, scouring the ground in the near-darkness. As the sun had set, the temperature began to drop, and at some point Trip had put his sweater back on, and Malcolm found himself a bit disappointed that Trip’s well-muscled arms were no longer visible. He smiled wryly to himself, even if he could no longer touch he was still allowed to look. “I agree, Commander,” he replied, “this cliff would be a difficult climb for someone of advanced years.” Dutifully, he searched the ground around him, seeing no signs of a path anywhere. The slope seemed to end at the base of the cliff, a near impossible obstacle in their way.

“Climb?” Trip replied sharply, “we ain’t climbin’ that!” Malcolm looked up to see Trip glaring at him, his expression plain even in the weak light of the lantern.

“You are correct,” Malcolm said archly, “ _we_ are not climbing it, _I_ am. I have the training for it, it only makes sense that I should go.”

Malcolm watched as Trip’s expression darkened. “I don’t care if you were the interstellar rock-climbin’ champion!” Trip spat, “You ain’t goin’. It’s too dark and too dangerous. We’ll wait until mornin’.”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes, annoyed. It’s not like Trip actually cared what happened to him anymore, so why was he arguing? “This is not a dangerous climb, _Commander_ ,” Malcolm said, “I’ve done far more difficult climbs in far less light than this.” He shrugged off the knapsack Arun had given him and withdrew a thick coil of rope and slung it over his arm and the opposite side of his neck. He turned back towards the cliff face, pointing upwards. “Now, I think I see a way to the top--"

In three quick strides Trip had crossed the distance between them and grabbed Malcolm’s forearm. “You ain’t goin’ up, _Lieutenant,_ and that’s an order!”

“Hoshi’s injury is my responsibility, Commander,” Malcolm snapped, “I will ascend that cliff with or without your permission.” He shook off Trip’s hand.

“Jesus Christ!” Trip exploded, “it was a Goddamn accident! You could die if you try to go up there--" Trip stopped, his eyes narrowed. “But that’s what you want, ain’t it?”

Trip’s accusation was like a kick to the teeth. “Is that all you think this is?” he asked quietly, “my attempt to sacrifice myself for Hoshi?”

“Well, ain’t it?” Trip snarled back, “You could be killed if you climb that!”

“That climb will not kill me Commander!” Malcolm retorted. Spending the night lying on the ground next to Trip just might though, he thought. Trip was not his any more; he didn’t need any further reminders of that fact.

“God damn you!” Trip shouted, “if you weren’t feelin’ so damn _responsible_ for everyone and everythin’ all the time, you wouldn’t do somethin’ so stupid!”

“They _are_ my responsibility!” Malcolm shouted back, “it’s my job to keep everyone safe! Why can’t you understand that?”

“You’re the Goddamn Armoury Officer!” Trip yelled, “Not some Goddamn guardian angel! People are gonna get hurt, and there ain’t nothin’ you can do about it!”

Malcolm shook his head, feeling a deep sadness well up inside him. “You just don’t understand,” he said softly.

“No, I guess I don’t,” Trip replied tonelessly, like all the fight had gone out of him. “Go ahead, climb the damn thing,” he said, throwing up a hand in a dismissive gesture, “get yourself killed.” He walked away.

Malcolm watched him as he sat on the ground, leaned his back against a small boulder and set the lantern down beside him. Its soft glow barely illuminating Trip’s arm and part of his thigh. “I’ll tie off the rope when I get to the top,” Malcolm called after Trip, “you can tie it around yourself and I’ll pull you up.”

“Sure,” Trip said, head back against the boulder, eyes closed.

Malcolm swallowed. “I’ll be careful.”

Trip didn’t open his eyes. “Whatever.”

Malcolm looked at the Commander for a moment, then turned back towards the cliff face, and began to climb. _Idiot!_ he thought to himself, _what the hell did you think he was going to do? Tell you he loved you? Give you a kiss for good luck?_ Trip was still convinced he was hell-bent on self-destruction; clearly unable to understand that Malcolm was only trying to do his job.

The light was fading fast, and Malcolm forced his thoughts away from Trip and to the task at hand. Just as he had suspected, the rock was exceptionally easy to ascend, the natural foot and hand-holds appearing like deep shadows in the rock. Effortlessly, he remembered the rhythm of climbing; one hand, one hand, one foot, one foot, only lifting one appendage when the other three were securely in place. He wasn’t even breaking a sweat.

He was nearly three-quarters up when things began to change.

What had started out as solid rock was now altering, it’s texture becoming more like dried mud or unfired clay; soft and easily breakable and unable to bear much weight.   
Gingerly, he put his foot on a small ledge, balancing himself on it while he leaned his arm out to grasp the next hand-hold. As he feared, the ledge broke off, and for a heart-stopping moment he had to scramble desperately to regain his connection with the cliff. A small shower of rocks skittered downward, soon invisible in the shadows below.

“Y’alright?” Trip’s voice held a small note of panic, and Malcolm smiled despite himself. Perhaps the Commander did care, after all.

“I’m fine,” he called back, “just a misstep.” It would do no good to tell Trip how precarious the climb actually was. It would only worry him, and it had to be done anyway. Grimly, he began to climb again, running his fingers along the cliff-face like a blind man reading brail. The light was almost completely gone, making finding hand and foot-holds more elusive. He continued his ascent, each move slow and deliberate. “Sacrifice myself, indeed,” he muttered as he climbed. If only Trip could see how careful he was being!

After another few minutes of climbing, he allowed himself a look downward. He was about twenty metres up and had only about ten metres more to go. But he was making good progress, and it wasn’t quite full dark yet. At this rate, he and Trip would probably be sleeping inside this Grimbaldi fellow’s hut for the night, instead of shivering on the cold ground, having to huddle together for warmth.

Another piece of rock broke off; from underneath his foot a second time, and once again Malcolm had to struggle to keep from falling. “Blast!” he swore softly as the shards of rock tumbled back to earth.

“What’s goin’ on up there?” Trip called, his voice an even mix of anger and fear.

“It’s become too dangerous,” Malcolm yelled back, “I’m on my way back down.”

“About time,” Trip shouted, relief evident in his tone.

Malcolm smiled to himself as he began his decent. He reached out and grasped his next handhold, a few feet below his current position, gave it an experimental tug to see if it would bear his weight. It held fast, and with a sigh of relief, Malcolm shifted his balance to that hand. He moved his foot downward and found a new ledge for it to rest on, shifted his balance again. He lifted his other hand off the cliff.

His foot and handhold broke off at the same moment. He felt a cry escape his lips, the air rush by as he fell. He was knocked unconscious as soon as he hit the ground.

* * *

Malcolm was falling.

Trip felt a scream well up in his chest, felt his eyes widen in horror as he watched Malcolm lose contact with the cliff-face and start tumbling towards the ground as if in slow motion.

It took forever for his body to finally contact the ground. The sound was sickening.

Trip was kneeling by Malcolm in an instant. The Lieutenant’s eyes were closed, his face slack. With a horrible sense of déjà vu, Trip pressed his fingers to his neck to feel a pulse and placed his other hand on Malcolm’s chest to see if he was still breathing. Trip felt dizzy with relief, Malcolm was still alive.

Gently, he slid his hands over the top and to the back of Malcolm’s head, trying to assess his injuries. Immediately, he felt the warm stickiness of blood, and with the taste of bile rising in his throat, he gently pressed on the back of Malcolm’s skull. No bones moved beneath his fingers, and Trip let out a breath. At least his skull wasn’t fractured. He slid his hands down Malcolm’s neck to his back.

There were several large, jagged stones underneath Malcolm. Trip inhaled sharply. That was not good. Gently, being as careful as possible to not move Malcolm’s neck, Trip rolled him partially on to his side, and slid the rocks out from under him. Even more gently, he ran one palm down Malcolm’s spine. He could feel no deformities, and Trip allowed himself a momentary feeling of relief. With slightly more force, he pressed his hand against Malcolm’s ribcage, first one side of his spine, then the other. On the left, he could feel a small movement of ribs under his fingertips, the grate of bone against bone. Clearly his ribs had absorbed the impact of Malcolm’s body against the rocks, saving his vertebrae from injury. But Trip had no way of knowing how badly broken those ribs were, what damage their splintered ends might have done to the fragile organs they were meant to protect. Trip swallowed hard, moved Malcolm down on his back again, hoping that was the right thing to do.

He moved his hands to the front of Malcolm’s body, running them down each arm in turn. His left arm was fine, his right arm broken again just like in the shuttle pod crash. There were no other apparent injuries, no other places where his hands came back slick with blood.

He had just located his communicator in a corner of his knapsack when Malcolm’s eyes fluttered open. At once he was back at Malcolm’s side, stroking his face. Malcolm’s eyes looked unfocused and fogged with pain. “Trip?” he said, voice weak.

“I’m here, love,” he murmured, “you’re gonna be okay.”

“I fell, didn’t I?” he gave a small smile. “Guess you were right.”

“Shhh,” Trip soothed, “I’m gonna contact the ship right now. Don’t try to talk.”

Malcolm closed his eyes for a second, “Hurts,” he muttered, “my head.” He re-opened his eyes and Trip could see a flicker of panic. “I can’t breathe.”

“You’ve been hurt pretty bad,” Trip explained, feeling a lump forming in his throat, “but don’t worry, Phlox’ll fix you up in no time.”

“I can’t breathe,” Malcolm said again, “my chest – something’s tearing a hole in my back. It hurts.” He groaned and tried to shift.

Trip put his hand on his chest, gently holding him in place. “Don’t move. You’ll only make it worse.”

Malcolm looked up at him, “I’m sorry.”

Trip forced himself to smile, “Don’t worry, I just need to call the ship--"

“No,” Malcolm reached out with his good arm to grab the hand that was still stroking his face, “you don’t understand.” He gasped, “I’m sorry I hurt you.” Trip could hear the effort behind the words as Malcolm laboured to draw in air. _Punctured lung,_ Trip thought, his heart seizing.

“Shhh,” Trip repeated, “save your strength.”

“I love you,” Malcolm said, gripping Trip’s wrist harder, “I’m sorry I hurt you. I love you.”

Trip felt the wet burn of tears fill his eyes and spill over. “I love you, too,” he said, “I never stopped.”

Malcolm’s grip loosened around his wrist; fingers gently slipping off until his hand fell back to the ground. His eyes rolled backwards and slowly slid shut.

Trip felt raw panic grab his heart and squeeze until he thought he’d faint. It took him forever to remember how to work the communicator, and an eon went by before he heard Phlox’s voice on the other end.

“Doctor,” Trip said into the communicator, forcing himself to breathe, “We have a medical emergency.”

* * *

The whiteness shivered around her.

Hoshi snapped her head up, watching in wonder as the bridge of the _Enterprise_ shimmered and coalesced into life around her. She was back in uniform, neat, tidy, the perfect spit-and-polish version of herself.

She stood slowly, looking around for the source of the change. “T’Pol?” she called softly, but somehow she knew it wasn’t the Vulcan returning to bolster her courage.

She felt the hairs prickle on the back of her neck and knew with certainty that she was no longer alone. She turned, unsure what to expect, hoping it was a friend.

Her eyes widened with shock. “Malcolm?”

 

END


End file.
